Eye of the Beholder
by Ravenya03
Summary: A series of vignettes focusing on Djaq and her various relationships with the rest of the outlaws, one outlaw per chapter. General/Soldier with Robin; Father/Daughter with John; Brother/Sister with Much; Angst with Allan; Fluff with Will.
1. Robin

_Hello readers! No, I'm afraid that this **isn't **the promised OT3 murder-mystery that I've mentioned on my profile, but rest assured, that IS getting written (I'm currently on chapter 8). The reason it's taking so long is because it's a rather complex plot, and I don't want it be filled with inconsistencies if I start posting it before it's complete. _

_So this five-part (possibly six-part) fic is to help fill in the gap until "Traveller from the West" is ready. This project will be a series of vignettes based around how the rest of the outlaws percieve nand interact with Djaq, as she goes through her development from an aggressive, defensive refugee of S1, to the more mellow and friendly woman we all saw in S2. Each chapter will be from a certain outlaw's POV, in order of their importance to Djaq (so this first chapter is based on Robin, it will be followed by John, then Much, then Allan, and finally Will). If there's room, I'll also try to squeeze a Marian chapter in there somewhere, as I'm interested in their relationship, something that the show (unsurprisingly) ignored. _

_Hope you enjoy, and please hang in there for "Traveller from the West". I'm trying really hard to make it worth the wait!_

* * *

**Eye of the Beholder: Robin**

She'd only been with them for a week, and yet it was already hard to imagine a time in which the strange little boy-girl _thing_ hadn't been stamping around Sherwood with a scowl on her face and a sword in her hand, as though she was angry with the forest itself.

She was as prickly as a hedgehog at first, with a short, derisive laugh and a tendency to roll her eyes at any ignorant comments that the outlaws came out with. But she was as fierce as a tiger during the ambushes, and her quick mind had already uncovered several stashes of concealed goods in passing carriages that the outlaws would have otherwise missed. And if John's mighty bulk didn't scare travellers, then Djaq's bloodthirsty little face certainly would.

Robin was mildly fascinated by it all. Five years in the Holy Land and he'd never once seen a Saracen woman: they were darkly shrouded ghosts in doorways and windows. Watching her, he wondered why the Saracens kept their women under such tight lock and key. If she was any indication as to the rest of them, all Saladin had to do was arm the wives and daughters of his people and they'd have the war won within the week.

The others didn't realise how rare it was to be see the naked face of an Eastern woman, and he wasn't particularly inclined to explain it to them considering it would only embarrass her. Yet looking at her was like having a secret that he couldn't share, a secret that no one else even knew _was_ a secret, and that was frustrating to say the least. The others simply didn't know what to make of her, and Much had begun to complain about her endless calls for contests so that she could test her mettle against the men in anything from play-fighting to foot-racing to spitting competitions.

It took a lot of effort not to laugh at the sight. Didn't she realise how _tiny_ she was? Watching her pit her strength against a group of men twice her size was unintentionally hilarious, and only his innate knowledge that pride was not something to be mocked prevented him from pointing this out to her. So Robin let her get on with it at first, sensing her desperate need to prove herself. It wasn't until after a wrestling competition that had ended with Much's face turning blue (courtesy of an impressive-looking headlock), that he realised that he had to get her something else to focus her energy on.

Archery was the one area in which she had little skill, for she'd never been properly trained in the use of a bow during her time serving in the Saracen army. He'd fetched one for her that was approximately her size and she had accepted the gift with a stoic thank you, one that contained all the dignity of a man receiving a knighthood from the king. In the evenings he often saw her leaving the campsites in order to practice in the forest.

"Thank God for that," Much said, tenderly prodding at a plum-coloured bruise that she'd left on his arm.

Robin had helped her out the first few times, instructing her on how to draw back the bow-string so that it wouldn't slap her forearm on release; on how to wear her quiver so that she could easily grasp the arrows poking from the top; how to fletch one end of an arrow and sharpen the other. Oddly enough, it was in the act of archery that he always caught an accidental glimpse of her true self: in the way she stood, in the way her arms and wrists curved…such mannerisms were obviously female. And he realised it was _nice_ to have a woman around, even one so strange as this. It made him feel closer to Marian somehow.

But her surly demeanour meant that she was black powder just waiting to go off, and go off it did one evening when both she and Allan needed the use of the same knife at the same time. The squabble had quickly deteriorated into a scuffle, all of which was highly amusing since Robin wasn't entirely sure if Allan was even aware yet that Djaq was a female. He'd been high on black root when she'd announced herself to the gang, and since there had been a surprising lack of flirting on Allan's behalf, Robin could only assume no one had bothered to tell him the truth about their latest Saracen acquisition.

"Oy, steady on mate!" Allan cried after the tug-of-war had ended with Djaq attacking his shins with a vicious kick. She wrenched the knife from his grasp and stomped off.

"Yeah, that's all you can reach!" he shouted after her. "Are you going to bite my knees next time?"

He looked around at the sniggering outlaws in confusion.

"What? Daft little bloke nearly broke my hand!"

But Robin had seen her expression as she'd marched away. Her face was red – though with embarrassment or anger he couldn't tell. As Allan continued to yell obscenities to the trees, he'd discreetly trailed her into the forest.

She was whittling fiercely away at the tip of an arrow, her face as stony as the rock she was sitting on.

"Don't worry about Allan…" he began as he approached.

"Allan is the only one of your men I can stand for any length of time," she snapped. "And that is only because he is too stupid to tell that I am a woman."

"I see. You think the others are giving you special treatment."

She dropped her busy hands down into her lap and looked up at him with something akin to despair in her large brown eyes.

"John is too watchful. Much is too helpful. And the boy-"

She self-consciously raised a hand to the clasps on her waistcoat.

"He stares at me."

He looked at her for a moment – she looked so alien sitting there, a tiny patch of desert lost in a forest of towering trees.

"Aren't you happy here? I could arrange passage back-"

"No!" she cried suddenly. "I want to stay here. I can be helpful here. I can keep up. I pull my own weight. I can-"

"Alright, alright!" he cried, trying not to laugh. "It was just a _suggestion_, I wasn't implying that I wanted you to go!"

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, clutching the knife in one hand and the half-sharpened arrow in the other, looking thoroughly miserable.

"The lads…they're not doing it on purpose," he told her. "In fact, I don't think they're even doing it because you're a woman."

Her eyes glinted up at him from behind her folded arms as she waited for him to continue.

"Much is a servant. It's his _job_ to be helpful. He's always fetching and offering and asking and doing things for me."

"But that should be only for you though. You're his master. He doesn't listen to the other outlaws. But he keeps…_helping_ me with things. He doesn't think I can do anything by myself."

"He doesn't help me just because I'm his master. It's because I'm a noble, albeit a slightly displaced one. Like you are. He recognises that, so it's in his nature to do what you tell him to, even if he doesn't realise he's doing it."

"How do you know I was a noble?"

"An educated guess. You're…um…kind of bossy."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on her shoes.

"I did not mean to be like that," she said, so quietly that it was probably a comment she was making to herself.

"And John…well, he's just overprotective because of Roy."

"Who is Roy?"

The sense of failure that Robin felt whenever he imagined Roy's face disappearing behind that onslaught of flashing swords welled up in him.

"Roy was part of the gang before you came to us, and an outlaw long before I ever was. He…he didn't make it out Nottingham Castle."

"What happened?"

He hesitated, wondering if he should tell her, and then realised that by remaining mute on the subject, he would be treating her like the woman she clearly didn't want to be.

"He was captured by the guards and tortured. His mother was taken hostage, and he was threatened with her hanging if he didn't return as a spy and kill me in my sleep."

He paused for a moment, remembering.

"He confessed, and we staged a rescue mission. But he didn't make it out. And that's why John may seem too watchful. Roy was like a son to John. John's a father, did you know that? I think that perhaps you remind him of…well…it's just that you're rather…er…_small_."

She was quiet, her face unreadable, and the silence between them stretched out. Then:

"Did you rescue her successfully?"

"Who? Oh, Roy's mother. Yes, she was taken to a nearby Abbey."

Djaq nodded, and her eyes drifted off into the trees. Robin summoned his courage, felt mildly surprised that courage _had_ to be summoned, and sat next to her on the rock, easing the arrow out of her hand and examining the point.

"Good work," he told her. "And about Will. Well, he's a teenager. What can I say?"

Glancing sideways at her, he thought he saw a ghost of a smile flit across her face. It took him a moment before he was struck by this fact. He'd made a Saracen smile.

It brought him an odd sort of peace; a tiny glimmer of reassurance amidst memory of her homeland. He had done terrible things in the Holy Land, and for a moment he couldn't force back visions of the brutal fighting, the blood splattered in the sand, the terrible war cries of her people, the long curved blades…he closed his eyes and shuddered.

"War," he heard her say.

His eyes popped open.

"How did you know I was thinking that?"

"I have seen that expression too often to not know the root of it. War covers a face – you see it… behind the eyes."

She was grappling with her second language, struggling with the concept she was trying to convey.

He nodded slowly.

"A soldier's face," he said. "You have it too."

The moment he uttered those words he came to an unexpected realisation concerning the bewildering kindred-spirit on the rock next to him. That he trusted her, perhaps even more than he trusted the others. Now that he'd given it some thought, he wasn't surprised to find that he was more like her than any of the other outlaws. She was nobly born, she was educated, she was trained in combat, she possessed a picture of the world that went beyond the dozen or so villages scattered around Nottingham Town. She understood the tough decisions that a leader sometimes had to make, and the burden that went with making them.

"I would like to think that you're happy here," he told her.

"Happiness is fleeting. I have something better than that: a purpose. Work that needs to be done."

He paused, grappling with the advice he wanted to give her.

"That's good. I'm just saying though, that you don't need to be so antagonistic."

"So _what_?"

"It means you're always picking a fight. The boys – you don't need to prove yourself to them. They'll be your friends if you let them."

"I do not have friends."

"Don't you want to?"

The thought had obviously never occurred to her.

"I…"

"Look, I'm just saying – you're not in the army anymore. You're not even in the East anymore. Here you can relax a bit. Have some fun."

It took every ounce of willpower not to burst out laughing at the look on her face. She looked like he'd just suggested she put on a frilly dress and invite the sheriff into the forest for a picnic luncheon. Then her shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose I could go easier on them," she mused. "They _are_ only peasants I suppose."

This time he laughed out loud.

"You remind me of Marian sometimes. You're both so…"

He grappled in the air for the appropriate word.

"So…_superior_."

He turned to face her, hoping she wasn't offended, but she was looking at him with interest.

"You care about Marian."

It was a simple statement, but with the hint of a question concealed within it, and he wasn't quite sure what it was she was asking.

"I…well, I'm _fond_ of her. I mean, we were kids together. And our parents…we ah…" He cleared his throat. "We were betrothed before I went to the Holy Land."

"You chose your duty to your king over your feelings for your fiancée?"

He cleared his throat, now immensely uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Yeah I did. I guess that's why she can't stand the sight of me anymore."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you choose war over love?"

He shrugged, kicking at stray stones underfoot.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"Was it?"

He looked back at her intense little face, unsure how she had steered the conversation in this direction, and baffled as to what it was she was searching for in his replies. Yup, she was definitely a woman.

He looked up at the canopy, hoping that the leaves would spell out an answer.

"No," he finally sighed. "No it wasn't. There was nothing there for me. And people needed me here."

She held his gaze for a moment, and he felt as though he were on trial, his entire being scrutinised and judged by a pair of dark Saracen eyes. Then she nodded and looked away again, presumably satisfied with his answer. For a moment they sat in companionable silence. Somewhere beyond the quiet of the clearing their countries were at war with one another, but for now, the two of them worked at the simple task of sharpening arrowheads. The peace that she'd unknowingly stirred in him settled and strengthened, lying like a red-cross shield over a guilty wound.

He had a lot to apologise for on behalf of his country, and for all he knew her family members could have been among the dozens he'd cut down on the battlefield. But having her here was like an assurance of redemption. He could make amends with all the world if only he could make things right with her.

"Well, I should head back," he said once the arrows were sharpened and tied together in a neat bundle. On an impulse he leaned forward to ruffle her hair and was rewarded with a sharp glare. But later that night he noticed her crouching next to Much by the campfire, using the knife to cut some mushrooms and plop them in the pot as his manservant stirred it with his ladle.

It got him thinking. Maybe he'd go see Marian tomorrow. Maybe take some flowers with him.


	2. John

_Wow, this got incredibly long without my realizing it! This is Djaq as she appears from John's point of view, about mid-way through the first season (but definitely **before **the episode "Dead Man Walking." The second part of this fic is a little unusual - I hope it works out for you. Also, many of the herbal remedies that I list here are definitely not to be taken as gospel - please don't think that I'm any kind of expert on the matter. _

* * *

**Eye of the Beholder: John**

He knew it was a mistake right from the beginning. Even if she _did_ look like a boy, putting a woman in the middle of a forest with four young men who hadn't had any female contact for months was like throwing a bone to a pack of hungry dogs and expecting them to ignore it.

He knew it from the moment Robin had asked if anyone minded a woman being in the group. He may as well have asked whether anyone minded getting handed a hot steaming meal on a plate. Or soft bed with plumped pillows and warm blankets.

Will already had a little smirk on his face, and he'd seen Robin's appraising once-over. She'd provided Much with food, which was probably reason enough for him to propose marriage, and it was only a matter of time before the black root wore off and then Allan would be all over her too.

It could only mean more work for him in the attempt to keep all of them in check, and he prepared himself for the new responsibility. Yet secretly, after he'd given it some thought, he found he didn't mind so much. Sometimes he forgot she even _was_ female, and when glancing at her from the back, he once momentarily mistook her for a child. It was easy to suppose that she was some Higher Power's way of granting him another chance: to protect a diminutive woman in repayment for so utterly failing in his duties toward his own wife and child.

And yet he soon realised that such protection was neither needed nor wanted, and as she slowly integrated herself into the team, his fears began to subside. She was so tiny, and his natural impulse to shield living things smaller than himself from harm (which was almost everything, really) was difficult to curb, but having seen and judged the sharp gleam of pride in her eyes, he knew that molly-coddling her was unthinkable. So he looked out for her in other, more discreet ways, such as keeping an eye on the sleeping arrangements and making sure all the men were present and accounted for when she slipped down to the river to bathe.

He'd noticed her one day, poking about on the forest floor, gazing closely at various plants with a frown of concentration on her face.

"Everything is different here," she sighed when she saw him approach.

"What do you mean?"

"My father was a physician," she said. "And he taught me the ways of medicinal herbs. But here, I do not recognise anything. And those that look familiar are known by different names. Allan asked me if I had come across any goat-weed. What is goat-weed?"

John refrained from telling her, realising that Allan's question was a clear indicator that he'd finally realised she was female.

"Never mind that," he said, and crouched down next to her in front of the tuft of greenery she'd been peering at, pulling a few of its yellow flowers free.

"This here is St John's Wort," he told her, holding the flowers under her nose for her to sniff experimentally. "We use it in tonics for headaches. And that over there…" he pointed at the clump of white flowers bobbing like tiny heads in the breeze "…that's feverfew. They're for bringing-"

"A fever under control," she interrupted swiftly, and he hid a smile. Clearly she didn't quite like the idea of not being the sole authority on herbal remedies.

For the rest of the afternoon he introduced her to the flora and fauna of the forest, watching as she examined, sniffed, crushed or gingerly tasted the specimens he handed to her. He told her what was edible, and what wasn't, how the herbs were prepared and treated, and dredged out of his memory every conceivable nickname that woodsmen used for the variety of plants around them. There were lime flowers from the linden tree for coughs and colds, dock-leaves to relieve stinging nettles, comfrey, or "knitbone" for bone ailments, and dandelions…she looked confused for a moment when he held it under her chin, and then mildly exasperated when he explained that if the flower turned one's skin a shade of yellow, it meant that someone was sweet on her.

They had found a clearing that blushed red with the sweep of poppies, a flower that she knew in her own land as _khash khaash_, and stopped to cultivate some of the seeds from the swollen seed-pods. She was optimistic that a tonic made from the crushed seeds might relieve Robin of his nightmares. Leaning against the trunk of an old birch tree, John sat and watched her work. He'd often found himself doing this over the past few weeks – though not as obviously as Will did – in the attempt to quietly pick up bits and pieces of who she was. She was an _interesting_ wee thing, that much was certain. Deft fingers, thoughtful eyes, and a sharp, quick mind – you could almost hear it working, though he couldn't fathom what it might be thinking. He knew she prayed frequently (at least, that was what he assumed the daily crouching and chanting was all about) and her piety impressed him. He knew she was scrupulously modest, heading into the trees and away from prying eyes even for something as simple as changing into the new pair of boots that Robin had bought back from Nottingham for her. And she never drank ale, not even when they offered it to her, and the one time Allan tried to add a splash of something stronger than water into her cup, she'd responded by returning it straight to his face.

For a moment it was hard to say which one was more stunned at what she'd done as the frothy liquid dripped down Allan's face, but their twin expressions of shock must have triggered some shared appreciation for the absurd. They were still chortling like idiots twenty minutes later, and Allan hadn't been able to disguise the dawning expression of gob-smacked realisation as the unmistakeably feminine laughter rang out over the camp. Later that night John heard him mutter to Will: "Why didn't someone _tell_ me?"

_Goat-weed,_ he thought darkly to himself. He'd have to give Allan a cuff around the ear for that when he saw him next.

His eyes were closed and his mind drifting away into dreamy slumber when he felt a light touch on the back of his hand and glanced down to see Djaq brushing her fingers over his wedding ring, twisted on his finger like a band of metal around an oak stump.

"Are you married?" There was something in her inflection that suggested she already knew the answer, and was asking in the attempt to learn more.

"Yes," he said shortly, and after a lengthy pause in which he realised that it was hardly fair to deny her knowledge of _him_ when he'd been busy accumulating knowledge of _her_, he elaborated. "Her name is Alice. She lives with my…my son in Locksley."

She turned back to her work, grounding the poppy seeds into a fine paste between a flat-topped rock and a round stone. The silence was inviting.

"I had to leave Alice when I became an outlaw," he continued. "I did not even know she was with child at the time. I thought it would be best, you see. Safer for her if I lived in the forest. They couldn't…use her against me if they all thought I was dead."

Djaq added more seeds to the gloopy mess between the rocks, and continued to grind away at them.

"I saw my son John for the first time just a month or so before you came to us. He walked with a limp and didn't recognise me. But then, why would he?"

Djaq carefully scraped the crushed seeds into a small square of leather that she then tied up in a pouch, and asked:

"How did you meet your wife?"

"I didn't meet her. I've always known her. Can't remember a time when I didn't. We grew up together in Edwinstowe. She was a few years younger than me, and I was best friends with her older brother. I used to run around with Peter, and she was always tagging along. It was rather amusing to see her trying to keep up with us. She was just a tiny thing…you'd loose sight of her in a paddock of tall grass…"

He bit his tongue, realising that his anecdote might be cutting a little too close to Djaq's situation for her liking, but she simply nodded serenely, and he carried on.

"We did everything we could to avoid her. But then one day…I saw her in the fields, helping with the harvest. She had her hair loose and her sleeves rolled up and she looked…different."

He stopped again, lost in the memory of that day. Djaq had stopped work and was gazing, not at him, but at the light of the sun, just dimming over the edge of the forest trees. He came back to himself and sighed.

"Anyway…I don't go to see them. Too dangerous. They both still think I'm dead."

Djaq seemed fascinated with this idea, and he wondered briefly if she was imagining that her own family was still out there somewhere, alive and well, and watching her from afar. But with a shake of her head, he saw her cast the wistful thought aside, and she looked back at him with a strange sort of smile on her face.

"At least they are alive," she said, but the words were spoken without self-pity. "You may yet be reunited with them in this life."

They returned back to the campsite in silence.

* * *

It seemed odd in hindsight, but he couldn't remember exactly who it was that had started the tradition. It could have been Much. Maybe Robin. Or perhaps she'd started it herself in an attempt to keep the two of them from sniping at each other every evening. In any case, once they'd discovered she was a veritable treasure trove of stories, there was a constant demand for them once night had fallen and they were gathered around the campfire.

Robin and Much had heard many of the stories before, often interrupting with their own variations of events, and Will usually listened while tinkering with some woodwork project of his. John secretly loved her strange, exotic stories; listening as he did whilst wrapped in his blankets, nursing a mug of warmed ale by the fire. Robin preferred the heroic stories; tales of rescues and escapes, swordfights and battles, and the more tragically magnificent the hero was, the more he seemed to enjoy them. Much was partial to stories about food, naturally enough, and as Djaq was innately talented in describing the aroma and flavour of sumptuous dishes, she often sent him into an ecstasy of moaning, "I know how he _feels_," he groaned after hearing the tale of Tantalus and his terrible punishment, seated forever at a banquet he could only look at, but never taste.

But John's own favourite was the voyage of Odysseus, a tale so long that Djaq had had to stretch it out over several nights. He was appalled to find his eyes burning with tears at its conclusion, when the seafaring man finally returned home to discover that faithful Penelope had waited, and was glad for the darkness of night and the excuse that smoke from the fire was getting in his eyes.

Allan had been blasé about the whole thing at first, listening from his usual sprawled-out position outside the ring of the campfire, carelessly flicking a coin through his fingers. But as the nights went on, John noted his change his expression in a way that amused him even as it put him on edge. By the time Djaq started on the Arabian Nights, she commanded Allan's rapt attention, and he'd listen in utter fascination, as engrossed as a child in what she had to say. It was the story of Aladdin that had really rendered him helpless: after the legendary thief had had stolen a magic lamp, conned a palace, tricked a magician and married a princess, Allan was all but sitting in her lap.

"And was the princess he married a _Saracen_ princess?" he asked suggestively, a grin wedged across his face. "I bet she was."

She pushed him away with a coy smile. John was mindful enough of her own intelligence to know that she'd probably realised the potential threat that Allan posed toward her virtue (or _any_ woman's virtue,) but after an entire week of Allan requesting that she retell that particular story, he had to threaten him with a menacing wave of his staff.

The night that followed the afternoon in which he'd introduced her to the forest, she was quiet at the time she usually began her narration.

"A_hem_," Much finally prompted.

"Be quiet Much, I'm thinking of one," she replied, her eyes fixed on the fire.

John settled back, waiting patiently. Looking at her now as the firelight danced over her Saracen features, he pondered as he often did, as to how unreal her presence among them really was. Her circumstances in life seemed so improbable; a cruel chain of events that had left her suddenly deposited in the outlaws' equally misplaced lives…To be honest, she made him a little nervous sometimes. He'd nearly died of fright when he'd awoken at the base of that mine shaft, looking into the face of an imp waving a foul-smelling concoction under his nose. He'd never seen a Saracen before – either male or female – and everything he knew about them came from terrifying stories from the Holy Land, in which Saracens fought with the strength of giants, drank the blood of their enemies, and could carry on living for days after loosing an arm or a leg. When he'd seen her fight for the first time, he believed every word. Often when she spoke of genies and demons and ghostly apparitions, he found himself watching her carefully in the firelight, half believing that she herself was a spirit conjured out of one of her own stories.

Suddenly, she began:

"This story is about a king who lived with his wife and child in a large castle by the sea. He was a fair and just man, and was loved by his subjects and his family alike. But one day, a terrible darkness settled upon the kingdom, and while the king and his young son were wandering in the castle orchard, the king was struck down by a terrible curse and turned into a large black bear.

"The castle guards, not recognising their liege, immediately attacked him with sword and spear in defence of their young prince. The king had no choice but to flee, for his attempt to speak only resulted in terrible roars and snarls. He was driven from his own home, and took refuge in the forest, learning to survive on berries and roots from the trees, and fish from the rivers.

"Meanwhile, his queen and young son mourned for the loss of their beloved husband and father, and soon found themselves under the mercy of a charismatic but cruel wizard clad from head to toe in black robes; the very wizard who had placed the evil spell upon the king. But the queen was not to know this – all she had been told was that her husband had been devoured by a terrible bear. And that now an unwanted suitor was pressing for her hand in marriage.

"She resisted his advances for as long as she could, but when the wizard finally threatened to murder her son if she did not oblige him, she knew had had to make her escape. She fixed a sleeping draught for her son so that he would not awake during the journey, dressed herself in the clothes of a chamber-maid, and stole from the castle in the dead of night, her sleeping son in her arms."

"If only it were that easy to get women out of castles," they heard Robin sigh to himself.

"She journeyed back to the cottage where she'd been born – a homely fisherman's hut by the sea. She had lived there in the years before the king had seen her one summer morning when out riding.

"Here she dwelt in hiding with her son, surviving on the fish that they netted from the ocean waves. One day the young prince was wandering along the shore, collecting oysters for his hungry mother, when he saw a great black bear in the water, catching up fish in the crashing waves. When the bear noticed him and turned to stare, the boy took fright and raced for his home, not stopping for breath until he had reached his mother's arms. He had not recognised his own father.

The queen warned her son not to stray too far from the house, but the following morning, was surprised to find a pile of food outside her front door: freshly slaughtered rabbits, fish still gleaming with saltwater, and the hind leg of a deer."

Much gave a quivering little moan of longing.

"She and her son had not feasted so well since the banquets at the castle. Every morning after, their doorstep was covered in bounty from the ocean and the forest, and every day the queen wondered where it had all come from.

"While the royal family were banished to poverty and beast-hood, the evil wizard had taken over the kingdom. But a throne that is stolen is one that is easily snatched away again, and the wizard wanted to find the queen and so secure his rule. His spies crawled throughout the land and finally one of them came to him with news of a woman and her small son living on the shore. Certain it was them, the wizard gathered all his evil powers to him, and landed on the front step of the humble shack, tearing the door from its hinges with black magic. He strode into the room with a naked sword, determined to slaughter the innocent boy and take the queen by force, but as he approached, a dark shadow filled the doorframe.

"The queen screamed, at both the sight of her terrible enemy, and the massive bear that shouldered its way into the house, breaking down the walls as it did so. The wizard did not even have time to raise his sword before one swipe of the bear's mighty paw removed his head from his shoulders and sent it bouncing into a corner."

"Blimey," Allan muttered.

"For a moment the queen and her son looked at the bear, and the bear looked back. Then, gazing into his dark eyes, the queen recognised him for who he was and called out her husband's name. With that, the spell was broken, and the king reverted back to human form, free to leave the forest and return to his castle with his wife and son. And that is the end."

As always, there was a long silence among the other outlaws as they digested her story as one would digest a hearty meal.

"That was a good one," Will said eventually, the knife and block of wood in his hands having been dropped to the forest floor some time ago.

Then Robin spoke: "That didn't sound like an Eastern story. More like an English one. But I've never heard it before."

"No," she replied. "I made that one up myself."

John sighed softly to himself. If she _was_ a spirit, she was a benevolent one.

* * *

_Just to clarify, the "goat-weed" that Allan asks Djaq to find is also called "horny goat-weed" and is considered an aphrodesiac. So...yeah. I couldn't resist. Next chapter will be Much._


	3. Much

_Okay, this one didn't quite come out the way I first imagined it. It's a little different from the previous fics in that although it's told from Much's POV, we don't really get much perspective on how he feels about Djaq._

_However, in retrospect maybe this works in the fic's favour considering that Much doesn't really strike me as an introspective person. He just sees things, and then reacts to them. He likes what he likes, and he dislikes what he dislikes, and probably doesn't give it much thought beyond that._

_Which is probably why Allan comes across as a bit of a jerk in this fic! (let's face it, he could be pretty awful to Much at times)._

_Anyways, here it is:_

* * *

**Eye of the Beholder: Much**

Michaelmas was fast approaching, and the sheriff had decided to celebrate in his own revolting way by raising the taxes. With the leaves turning on the trees and the winter fast approaching, the proclamation had been met with quiet despair among the peasantry, grim silence from the nobles, and an understanding within the ranks of the outlaws that this could only mean more work for them. Robin had reacted typically enough – with outrage, bluster and a few impassioned speeches to the villagers that assured them aid when the winter came, including a promise to the people of Clun that a surprise was in store for the Feast of St Michael.

"What surprise?" Much had asked him on the way back to the campsite.

Robin shrugged. "Haven't thought of one yet."

And so, in the weeks leading up to the holy day, the outlaws found themselves working double-time; hauling sacks of grain into hidden storerooms, counting out coins and dividing them into pouches, stealing loaves of bread and baskets of vegetables from the castle kitchens, laying new traps throughout the forest for wild birds, and collecting medicines and bandages that Marian had hidden in various hidey-holes around Nottingham. John and Djaq even contributed several bags of nuts that they had been collecting during their forest exertions.

By the time dawn broke on Michaelmas, all was ready to be distributed. The morning had not been promising – it had rained during the night and everyone was cold and wet. Someone had forgotten to cover the kindling, making it impossible to light a fire, and so it was a cold breakfast that they devoured, standing around the useless pile of wood. Allan gave it a discontented kick and groaned at the sky as though God were to blame for all his woes.

Much tried to infuse the situation with some cheer.

"All that food and money to pass around…it's just like Yuletide!"

Allan snorted. "Yeah, except if Saint Nick ever got caught, he wouldn't get strung from the gallows afterwards."

"Well _excuse_ me for trying to looking on the bright side. I thought we could use some cheering up."

"You want to cheer me up? Find a way to turn off the rain."

"Two minutes," he heard Robin mutter to John. "That's a new record for those two to start squabbling."

Much bristled. Couldn't they tell that it was _Allan_ who always started these things? He himself had no interest in bickering, but one could tell from the agitated look on Allan's face that the day's grievances would be dealt with by picking on Much. He could almost see the blue-eyed man mustering a series of barbs that he'd no doubted spent the whole night thinking up. His mouth opened…and someone else spoke.

"You told me last night that you could juggle," Djaq said, gently pulling on Allan's cloak. "Prove it."

Allan immediately lost interest in Much.

"I don't know," he teased. "There's nothing here to juggle."

"You could juggle the firewood. Or some stones. Or our swords perhaps?"

"How about the buttons on your waistcoat? I could cut them off for you."

Much rolled his eyes and turned away, grateful for the reprieve, but sorry that it had to be replaced with flirting.

*****

They had to split up and go alone into the separate villages in order to get everything distributed in a single day. By the end of the afternoon, Much's throat was hoarse with saying: "special delivery from Robin Hood," and his footsteps were heavy as he trudged to the agreed-upon meeting point. The long grass of Nettlestone soaked through his trousers, and he shook himself off like a dog as he entered the barn, raindrops splattering on the straw underfoot. Allan, Djaq and Will were already there. Allan had apparently discovered that the best objects for juggling were pinecones, and was now showing off to a bemused Djaq and a somewhat disdainful Will.

"No sign of Robin yet?" Much asked.

"Do you see him anywhere?" Allan asked, eyes still on the pinecones.

"No."

"Then the answer's no."

Much scowled. One of these days he was going to wipe that smug little smile off Allan-a-Dale's face…

"How did your drop-off go?" Djaq piped up.

"Oh, er – fine." She had interrupted the image he was nursing of introducing his fist to Allan's face. "Not much to say really. Hello, what's this?"

John was returning from his sojourn into Nottingham, hiking through the tall grass with his staff. Behind him trailed a line of women, hitching their skirts up and chatting loudly to one another. John opened the barn door for them, a pained expression on his face. The pinecones dropped to the floor as the women passed through into the lofty barn.

"What's going on?" Much asked.

"These women are here to see Robin Hood," John said wearily, his tone suggesting that this had been a matter of some debate between himself and the women.

"Pffsst. Lucky sod," muttered Allan, crossing his arms.

"Hello _Allan_," said a blonde woman archly, her arms likewise crossed.

Allan shuffled his feet sheepishly. "Hey Maggie."

She had a youthful face, but there was a bitter twist to her mouth and her eyes were as grey and hard as stones. From them shone a sort of angry pride.

"What can we do for you – er- ladies?" Much asked, feeling a little embarrassed. Though most of the women were modestly dressed, the one called Maggie, who seemed to be the spokeswoman of the group, was wearing clothing that made it very clear as to how she made her living.

"We're looking for Robin Hood," Maggie said.

"He's on an errand to Clun," he replied. "But he should be back soon. We still have to take some supplies to Edwinstowe."

"I _told_ them that," sighed John.

"Then we'll wait here for him," she said, and nodded at the other girls, who made themselves comfortable on hay bales or perched atop water barrels.

"Maybe _we_ can help," Will said, getting to his feet and averting his eyes from her amply displayed chest. "What's the matter?"

Maggie gave him a quick once-over and decided that the youth was worth talking to.

"Guy of Gisbourne is the matter," she said.

"What's he done now?" asked Allan.

Maggie tossed her blonde curls over a shoulder: "I used to work at the castle as a kitchen maid, till I found new employment at the Trip." Her eyes flashed like swords at the sound of Allan's soft guffaw. "But today the women still working in the castle came to me for help."

Another woman - just a girl really - stepped forward to stand next to Maggie, and as Much's eyes flitted between the two of them, he thought saw a slight resemblance. But this idea he dismissed: a respectable maid couldn't possibly be related to one that worked at the Trip.

"It's Annie you see," said the girl, her eyes as wide as a deer's. "We all know the trouble she got into, and none of us want something like that to happen to _us_." There was a soft murmur of agreement from the other women. "Sir Guy…he often comes down to the kitchens. He watches us from the stairway, and sometimes touches our hair when we walk by."

"I did not get Ruth a job in the castle so that she could be deflowered by some brute of a man," Maggie broke in suddenly, causing her companion (and several others) to turn bright red. "We came to see Robin to ask him about it."

"What do you want him to do?" Allan asked.

"He's the hero. We want _him_ to tell _us_ what he plans to do." A dozen feminine heads nodded firmly. "And we're not leaving until we see him."

*****

An hour passed. Then two. John began to pace, throwing fretful eyes at the stores that Robin had organised for Edwinstowe. Allan was drowsing against a bale of hay, and Will and Djaq had been talking quietly to Maggie for the last half hour or so.

Something was very wrong. Much could feel it in his waters, even though he wasn't really sure what that meant. But he definitely felt _something_, and that something wasn't good.

"Something has happened," he said. "He should be back by now."

"He's probably just trying to track down that "surprise" he told the villagers about," John said. "But you're right, we can't wait for him anymore. We need to get these supplies to Edwinstowe before it gets too dark."

"But…shouldn't one of us go for Robin?" Will asked.

Allan let out a great yawn, sitting up and pulling straw out of his hair. "He's probably just found some adoring fan who's invited him in for a roll in the hay."

"But you said he'd come back here afterwards," Maggie said.

"He will. Eventually."

John crossed his arms. "There are hungry people in Edwinstowe. We _promised_ them food for Michaelmas."

"But if Robin is in trouble we have to go to him!" Much cried.

"Much, you don't _know_ that he's in trouble," John pointed out. "He often goes off on his own."

John came to a decision: "Will and I will go to Edwinstowe to finish off the drop-offs. Like Robin _told_ us to." He put a considerable amount of effort on this last point.

"Well, _I_ am going to Robin," Much declared. "And when I find him and rescue him from certain death, I'm going to tell him about how no one else cared about saving him."

"Whatever. I'll stay here and protect the women," Allan offered.

His smirk was the final straw. Much flung open the barn door and stamped out. The grass was whipping against his thighs when he heard a voice calling out from behind him.

"Much wait! Much _wait!_ I will come with you!"

He turned to see the small figure of Djaq wading through the grass, and he stopped until she caught up with him, feeling a little surprised.

"Why?" he asked her.

"Because you are right. Robin may need help and you cannot go by yourself."

He looked her up and down. She seemed sincere enough, but he found it hard to tell with her. Maybe this was another ploy of Allan's to wind him up.

"Come on then. There is no time to waste."

He turned and marched off, then stopped mid-stride, causing her to bump into him with a small "_oof._"

"What is it?" she asked as he turned around.

"Clun – it is this way." He brushed past her and set off in the opposite direction, trying to ignore the look on her face.

*****

They had re-entered the trees of Sherwood, since Much was certain that if he followed the line of dark yew trees, and then veered left in the grove of birch trees, then passed by the old oak stump and crossed the river Clutha, they'd find themselves in Clun in no time. The wind had picked up again, and so to relieve his discomfort as well as his anxiety, he fell back on talking.

"Robin and I, we did everything together in the Holy Land."

"_Everything?_" she muttered dryly to herself.

"When we left – over five years ago now, I was the only one who travelled with him. His parents were dead by then, and there was nothing left for him in Locksley. Well, except for…but my master wanted to put his king before his own wishes for the future. That's the sort of man he is."

Much was well aware of the late-night chats that Robin and Djaq had, sometimes in Arabic, but always in low voices. He could only imagine that it had something to do with the Holy Land, as he recognised the haunted look on Robin's face through the firelight, and heard Djaq's quiet, soothing tone in the darkness. It wouldn't hurt to let this little Saracen know just where Much stood on the subject of Robin.

"He relies on me a lot you know," he told her. "He tells me things that nobody else knows, not even M- not anyone."

"Yes, I know," she said.

"You – you can?"

He turned to look at her closely, and couldn't see any trace of sarcasm on her face.

"Mm-hmm," she nodded. "I don't think he realises just how important you are to him."

"You – you don't?"

She shook her head, and he straightened.

"Well, yes…_I_ don't think he does either. What do you mean by that exactly?"

"Just little things that he does without realising. When he gives orders he always looks at you first. When we sit down for meals, he usually sits next to you. Once I saw him put a blanket over you when you fell asleep."

"Really? He does all that?"

"Mm-hmm." She was saying all these wonderful things as though they were no big deal. "Now, you are sure you know where we are going?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely!" He was still beaming with amazement and pleasure, and so missed the turning at the last of the yew trees.

*****

It was almost two hours later that he heard the gush of water through the trees, and with a renewed bound in his step, he hurried forward, anticipating the next landmark.

"Ah-hah!" he cried as the trees parted to reveal the river on its steady race to the sea, moving all the fast because of the heavy rainfall.

"The Clutha River!" he announced as Djaq staggered up behind him. "We must have passed into Wathelan Woods…just a slight detour off-course. I think. But it means that Clun is not far away!"

They stopped and stared for a few moments at the thundering rush of the waters, the roll and tumble of the current over the grey rocks and the white foam that bubbled along the shore. It was not until several days later that Much realised it was quite possibly the first river she had ever seen.

"Well, come on then," he said, unbuckling his sword.

"What? You are not going…_through_ it are you?" she said in disbelief as he slung his belt over his shoulder and adjusted the sword against his back.

"Well yes. Only the Son of God can walk on water."

"I…I cannot swim."

"I don't think you'll have to. It'll probably only come up to my waist. So, in your case, I guess that would be your…um…chest."

"But it is too wide!"

"Not really. Haven't you ever forded a river before?"

Her expression told him quite clearly that she hadn't. She clung to her sword, now looking truly alarmed.

"Isn't there a bridge?" she asked.

"Yeah, about three miles from here. We don't have _time_ to go that far."

"It looks very fast. How do you know it will not sweep us away?"

"It's a river, not a broom," he told her, pleased at coming up with such a clever analogy.

She took on the general stance of a rock embedded in the ground, but she couldn't hide the glint of fear in her eyes.

"Look Djaq, it's not as scary as it loo-"

"I'm not scared!" she snapped. "But neither am I crossing."

She hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms, looking as stubborn as the proverbial mule.

He felt his impatience flow into his temper.

"Robin needs our help! He could be getting captured or tortured or killed! Now, you are a soldier, and you are going to cross this river if I have to pick you up and carry you on my back!"

They glared at each other.

"Unless you've got a better idea?"

*****

For such a little person, she was remarkably heavy, though he suspected that no woman – even one pretending to be a boy – would appreciate hearing that. Also, her knees were digging into his waist and her arms were clamped around his neck, pressing uncomfortably against his windpipe.

The water was sucking at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist, and Djaq's grip was slowly but surely tightening around his neck the further he waded into the water.

"I'm not afraid," he told her.

"I didn't say you were."

"I'm just making sure that _you're_ not. Because there's no need. Alright?"

"Yes," was the terse reply. "Please concentrate."

He struggled through the steadily rising water.

"Djaq…do you think…you could loosen your arms a bit?"

There was a considerable pause.

Then:

"No."

*****

Some time later they were picking their way up the muddy slope, slick and dangerous, when Much began to hum, and then sing softly to himself: "the stars above know more than we…for they can see the hearts, the souls, the loves that cannot be…"

Djaq turned to look back at him for a moment before continuing. But she called over her shoulder: "Who is she?"

"Huh?"

"The woman that you are thinking about."

"I'm not thinking of a woman!"

"Yes you are. I can tell from your face. You only ever look that dreamy when you are eating. But since there is no food here, either in your hand or in your song, I ask the question: 'who is she'?"

He cleared his throat. "Just a girl I met."

"Where?"

"At Bonchurch."

"What is she like?"

"Why are you so interested?"

"I just am."

He was silent for a few more paces, but the invitation to speak on the subject was too tempting to pass up.

"She has a voice like honey. Eyes as green as grapes. A mouth as red as strawberries. Hair as golden as butter."

Djaq gave a short, sharp laugh. "Is this a woman or a plate of food after all?" She paused for a moment, as though to check he wasn't offended, and then pressed on. "How did you meet her?"

"Well…she was a spy actually. A spy for the sheriff, and she was sent to trick me into giving up all of Robin's secrets."

She turned and peered into his face to see if he was joking, and he stared back, wide-eyed.

"I see," she said. "And how did that work out?"

"Rather well, thank you," he said shortly, somewhat offended. "She confessed to me, and then lied to the sheriff to help our cause."

"And now she is waiting for you?"

He took a moment before answering. "I hope so."

"Of course she is waiting for you," Djaq told him firmly, even a little crossly. "When the fighting stops you can go to her."

Much was quiet for a long time as they concentrated on the treacherous path, finally reaching firm ground on the high slope of the river bank.

"What is her name?" Djaq asked as he reached down to offer her his hand. To his surprise, she accepted it, and let him pull her up.

"It's…urgh!"

He had stepped backwards and trodden on a patch of mud, his arms whirling in the air to maintain his balance. Djaq reached out to set him upright, and he grabbed her roughly by the arms. Together the two of them toppled into the gully below, picking up several stray twigs and leaves along the way.

"Oof."

He had landed with a thud on the forest floor. Luckily he'd landed on something soft. Unluckily, that something was Djaq. Leaping up he cringed in anticipation of the scolding that was sure to follow, but Djaq simply hauled herself to her feet, wiped the mud out of her eyes and readjusted her sword. She looked up at him with her eyebrows raised as through waiting for something.

"Eve," he said.

*****

A group of children were playing at a crossroads further along the road, and due to the small blunt arrows they were shooting at each other, it wasn't difficult to guess what they were playing at. He smiled – this would be easy enough.

He marched up to the children and hailed them with a hearty: "Ahoy there!"

They immediately stopped their cavorting and turned to him with wide eyes. The biggest, a boy with dark messy hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, pushed forward and looked Much up and down.

"What do you want?" he asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Though slightly taken aback, Much maintained his cheerful tone. "My companion and I are on our way to Clun, but we – ah – we seem to have lost our way."

The boy looked him up and down.

"_And?_

There was a scattering of stifled laughter from the other children and Much bristled.

"_And_, do you know the way to Clun?"

The boy crossed his arms.

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't. But I can't tell you?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not allowed to talk to strangers."

"Well, that's thanks for you!" Much spluttered. "I'm the man who's helping feed and clothe your families over the winter. I'm the manservant of Robin Hood! Well, actually, I'm not his servant any more. But I still work for him. I mean, with him. _What?_"

The children were snickering openly now.

"You have heard of Robin Hood haven't you?" he asked. "Isn't that what you're playing at?"

The boy smirked at him, and Much got the sneaking suspicion that this one had been in the role of Robin.

"Yeah, I've heard of Robin Hood. But I don't believe you work for him."

"Why – why not?"

"_Because,_" he said, as though speaking to someone both deaf and dumb. "Robin Hood's men don't get lost in their own forest."

Much blinked, and then swivelled around to look at the trees.

"This is Sherwood?" he asked.

"Yes, this is Sherwood."

It was at this stage that Djaq stepped forward and lowered her hood. The raucous laughter instantly died away, and a dozen or so pairs of eyes widened in shock. The children of Sherwood had seen their first Saracen.

"Perhaps one of you might point us toward the village of Clun," she finally said, her accented voice like a foreign bird-call in the woods.

For a while there was no answer. Then finally:

"What's wrong with your skin?"

Much looked at Djaq in alarm, but to his surprise she looked vaguely amused.

"Where I come from, the sun is much stronger, and so darkens the skin of all my people."

Much blinked, wondering if that were true, but the children were nodding slightly as though it made perfect sense. Another boy stepped forward, shorter and with hair like wet straw.

"My father told me that one of the heathens had joined Robin Hood's gang. Is that you?"

She nodded serenely.

"Can you do magic?"

Much shot her another startled look, certain that one or more of these children were soon going to loose some vital part of their anatomy. But she simply shook her head.

"No. Magic is as forbidden among my people as it is among yours. I am a healer though, and an alchemist."

Much doubted that the children knew what an alchemist was, but the eldest had certainly heard of the word "healer". He swaggered forward, though there was a glint of trepidation in his eye. He pulled back his torn sleeve to reveal a shallow but messy gash up his arm.

"I ripped it on a tree branch," he said, almost defiantly. "Can you fix that?"

She knelt down on the muddy ground and the children gathered around, hesitantly at first, and then clustering close as Djaq inspected the wound and pulled a poultice out of the small pouch she always carried around her waist. Much sighed in impatience, but said nothing. Instructing a pig-tailed girl to dampen a cloth in a nearby stream, she cleaned the wound and carefully wrapped it in bandages. As she did so, one tiny white hand crept out and gently stroked Djaq's wrist, as though to test if the copper hue of her skin would rub off. Much glanced at her anxiously, but her head was ducked as though to hide a smile.

"Is it true that the Saracens drink the blood of their enemies?" another child asked, this one a dark-haired boy.

"Only when we're very thirsty," she answered, to which he nodded thoughtfully.

Finally the bandage was done and Djaq rose to her feet.

"Are all Saracens as short as you?" asked a small girl.

"No. I am not yet fully grown. We Saracens do not reach our full height until we are thirty years of age."

Much shot a sharp glance at her. He was certain that _that_ was not true.

"Why are covered in mud?"

She ignored that question and asked one of her own: "Now – which is the way to Clun?"

A dozen fingers pointed down the eastern road, followed by a chorus of offers to lead their way. It would seem they would have an escort to Clun.

"If any of _us_ asked you such impertinent questions, we would be in a considerable amount of pain for several days after uttering them," he said as they set off, a crowd of children gallivanting about their heels. Djaq shrugged, a small smile still playing about her lips.

Wanting to return to the pleasant subject of a few hours ago, and taking advantage of her current indulgence, he tried turned the conversation back to Eve.

"Do all Saracen women have hair as black as yours? I could never tell when I was in the Holy Land myself. I only ask because not many woman have _yellow_ hair, as you may have noticed."

"The woman in the barn – Maggie – she has yellow hair."

Much gave a snort. "_She_ is not like my Eve," he said. "_She_ is a…well...you know."

"Yes, I know," Djaq said. "Will and I were talking to her. She told me that she used to work at the castle in order to feed her mother and sister after her father's death. But when her sister turned sixteen, Maggie was afraid that she would fall into bad company in their need to earn money. And so she gave her job as a kitchen maid to her sister and sought employment at the Trip instead."

"Oh," Much said. "I did not know that."

Djaq smiled at him a little sadly. "That is because you did not ask."

*****

Evening had fallen by the time they reached Clun. Ahead of them light shone from every window in a public house that was filled with bawdy song and drunken laughter. The children had scarpered at the gates, leaving the two of them to approach alone.

"Alright, be careful," Much said, drawing his sword. "They're probably celebrating his capture. They'll have him trussed up somewhere, maybe on display. One of us needs to create a distraction and…what the…?"

They had reached a window and looked in on a scene of warmth and happiness. Men, women and children were seated around a large table covered in food. Robin was nowhere to be seen.

"Come on," Much said, grabbing her wrist and dragging her around to the doorway. It took a while for the company to notice them standing there, and probably a few seconds more for them to recognise them as humans rather than odd creatures formed of mud and bracken, but soon enough the noise died down and a man at the head of the table stood.

"Will you join us...travellers?" he asked, raising his goblet.

"Has Robin Hood been here?" Much asked.

"Why yes. He is the one who blessed us with this feast, as well as the venison that you see before you."

He gestured to the spit turning slowly on the fire behind him.

"Robin hunted through the forest all morning in order to bring it to us for a proper Michaelmas feast."

"And…is he here now?"

"No. He left several hours ago. He said he had business in Edwinstowe."

*****

It was night by the time Much and Djaq trudged up to the cave, soaked, muddy and exhausted. Firelight flickered at the mouth of the cave like a beacon welcoming them home, and the other outlaws watched with interest as they drew close to the flames and warmed their hands.

"What happened to you?" Robin finally asked, his speech a little slurred.

Much glared at him. He'd been dreading this.

"We went to Clun to look for you," he said tightly. "There were some women who wanted your help, and when you didn't come back I thought you might be in trouble."

"Yeah, I spoke to Maggie when I got back."

"Really. And how did _that_ go?"

Robin shrugged. "Fine actually."

Much was acutely aware of the smiles on the faces of the other outlaws, as well as the hint of insolence in Robin's voice.

"So you found a way to keep them safe from Gisbourne?"

Robin stretched back languorously, as pleased as a cat in the pantry. Much held it in for as long as he could, and finally grunted: "How."

Robin's smile widened. "I simply gave them a wanted poster to hang up on the kitchen door."

"How will _that_ help?"

"Much, Much, Much. What is it that our dear Guy of Gisbourne hates more than anything else in the world?"

"Well…you."

"Precisely. And therefore, he's not going to want anything to do with a group of women who keep a likeness of me in their kitchen that they blow kisses to every time they pass!"

He threw his head back and roared with laughter. He was quite clearly drunk, and when he settled down again, Allan gave him a little nudge as if to prompt him.

"Oh yeah, yeah. _Ahem._ Much: Clun is an hour's walk away. Why then did it take you the better part of an afternoon and evening to get there and back again?"

He sighed. He should have known this was coming. He saw clearly into the next few weeks, and they were rife with mockery and taunts.

"We got lost."

He jumped and glanced over at Djaq, who had spoken for the first time since returning.

"Got lost _where_?"

"Just lost." She shrugged as though it was no big deal, and the laugh they'd anticipated fizzled away before it had even begun. Much felt himself relax. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Why are you covered in mud?" John asked, his arms crossed.

"We fell over," she said breezily.

Discontent rumbled over the other outlaws, and Much hid a smile as the two of them took their seats around the fire. He'd never realised that stoicism was a sure-fire way of killing a joke.

Djaq settled in between Allan and Will, while Much sat opposite them next to the tipsy Robin, and watched as Allan gently pulled a leaf out of her hair.

A few minutes later he was still staring at it, his eyes flickering from Much to Djaq uncertainly, suspicion and disbelief chasing each other across his face. In a moment Much realised what he must be thinking, and opened his mouth in fierce indignation. Then he snapped it shut again, thinking that silence would be the better option. Better to let him squirm.

* * *

_Next chapter is Allan's, so stand by for plenty of angst! Also, there will be a bit of a jump in the timeline: so far all of these have taken place in S1, but in order for the Allan one to make sense, I'm pushing it forward to S2._


	4. Allan

_I thrive on Allan/Djaq angst! _

* * *

**Eye of the Beholder: Allan**

He didn't know the reason for his mood, only that it was bound to make him do something crazy. He felt like running until his heart burst, or challenging John to a fight, or yelling out nonsense at the top of his lungs. Maybe Much had slipped some dodgy mushrooms into this morning's stew. Maybe it was the weather: overcast and crackling with tension as a storm brewed up. Maybe it was the secret throbbing against his temples. He'd come back from another secret meeting with Guy last night, one that had left him with coins to add to the accumulating pile in the roots of the beech tree, but also a nasty welt on his arm where Guy had pressed it down over a candle flame. The man's theory had been that pain would help ease the truth out. But it would end soon anyway. Just a few more carefully chosen secrets divulged, and he'd have enough money stashed away to leave his service.

Yet at the moment he felt reckless and angry and defiant and uncertain, a swirling blend of emotions that were threatening to overspill out into the open. Maybe the reason behind it was all of that, helped along by the sight of Will and Djaq…

Will had managed to scrape himself along stinging nettle, and had rolled up his torn sleeve so that Djaq could dab some salve onto the back of his hand and the length of his arm. They were sitting comfortably together, heads bowed close, Will watching with quiet fascination as Djaq's fingers administered to his scratches. It was a cozy little scene, and the two of them were talking too quietly for him to hear properly. Occasionally one or the other gave a soft chuckle at something the other had said.

"You know," he said loudly. "I was thinking the other day as to how lucky we are, that out of all the Saracens in the world, you were the one that ended up falling into our laps. You must be the first woman physician in the world, and we've got you all to ourselves."

The two of them looked up, a little startled, as though his presence had caught them by surprise. Then Djaq managed a smile.

"No so, I'm afraid," she said. "Amina bint Quais was seventeen years old when she led a team of doctors through the Muslim conquests, healing soldiers in the war-zones. When I was a little girl, I used to pretend I was her. All the children of the servants had to pretend to be my patients."

She swiftly finished up on Will's arm, looking a bit self-conscious now, and returned to the task of cutting up some herbs with her little knife. Feeling strangely satisfied, Allan watched her for while, before realising that Will's dark eyes, in their turn, were on _him_. He lay back against his tree trunk and feigned sleep.

Great, now he felt _guilty_.

This idiotic little dance they did around her was fraying on his nerves, especially now, with everything else that he had to worry about. It had been like this ever since they'd spoken out that day she'd been taken to Nottingham Castle; Allan hardly believing that he was making such a confession, and Will talking with all the conviction of youth. Allan hadn't taken him too seriously at first (he was a teenager after all) but after pulling Djaq up and out of that mine-shaft, feeling relief course through him, following Will's "hey Djaq," with his own slightly more confident echo, Will had turned around and given him a look that very clearly said _don't_.

Allan had been surprised at the clarity of it, and the force of it stayed with him for a few days, preventing him from making any overtures to Djaq. Still, no big loss. There were plenty of other girls in the world, and shy, quiet Will Scarlett had clearly staked his claim. So Allan magnanimously conceded an early defeat for the sake of his young friend, and sat back to watch…as Will did absolutely nothing to pursue the woman he supposedly loved.

It was frustrating to say the least, and made no sense at all. If he wanted her so much, why didn't he do something about it? Silenced by his irritating loyalty to the boy, Allan had watched him watch her, and likewise watched her grow steadily more attractive. Her hair had grown out, softening the angle of her face, and she'd shed her bulky waistcoat at last to reveal some rather mouth-watering curves. He'd seen her hands up close as her nimble fingers closed up wounds, watched her eyes glinting as she told stories by firelight, and almost tripped over himself when he'd returned to the camp one day and found her washing her feet in a vat of water Much had prepared for her. With her breeches rolled up past her knees, it was the most of her skin he'd ever seen, careful and modest as she was. Since she hadn't noticed him standing there watching, he saw no reason to announce his presence till she was finished.

She was so different now from when he'd first seen her – not that he'd realised she had been a _her_. That had taken a rather embarrassingly long time to figure out, and it was still a point of contention with him that the others had allowed him to stay oblivious for so long. By the time he'd figured out the truth, he had found himself in a friendship with the Saracen that he didn't really know how to handle. He'd never been friends with a woman before.

And so his mind was pulled in a dozen different directions that day, from Sherwood to the Trip, from Maggie's bitter smile to Gisbourne's sneer, Djaq's laughter, Will's eyes, and now it was all settling slowly, like a pond smoothing itself out after a stone has been thrown in. It was just about time for the daily rounds of dropping off supplies to the villages. Robin had counted out the money from the latest ambush the night before, but there was nothing he'd rather do less this morning. He just wanted to lie back until the low rush of the leaves and the dim sunlight set him off to sleep. Slowly he forced himself to relax, lulled by the _thunking_ of Djaq's knife.

Mindful of her presence, he recalled his last attempt to get her attention. It had been Christmas a few weeks ago, and he'd found a sprig of mistletoe. Actually, he'd nearly broken his bloody neck trying to get it, what with the high tree branch creaking and swaying ominously under his weight. And it had all come to nothing anyway. He'd brought it back to camp, waited for a quiet moment, and then told her that the little plant was his best weapon in obtaining kisses.

She'd looked affronted. "You drug women in order to kiss them?"

"What? No, no! It's just an English custom. You…hang the…" he trailed off uncertainly, suddenly aware of what an idiotic custom it was. Kissing under plants? Who the hell came up with that? "You give it to…because it's…pretty."

She looked down in disbelief at the pale leaves and little white buds.

"Never mind," he'd muttered, throwing it away.

He was not at all impressed with the effect she had on rational thought. Nor for the way she made him feel as though he were a teenage boy clumsily wooing a dairymaid. He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed, trying to force the memory away.

"Ahem."

He looked up to see her standing over him with a sack of supplies.

"Come on. We are the only ones left."

He looked around, and sure enough, the others had already left.

"Well so we are," he said, stretching lazily. "Why go anywhere when we've got the whole place to ourselves?"

Used to this sort of talk, Djaq simply swung the sack in front of his face until he got up with a sigh and took it from her.

"Do you want to take Edwinstowe or Whitborough?" she asked.

He screwed up his face.

"Edwinstowe is closer, but Whitborough has less people…what one do you think will be the least amount of work?"

"It does not matter. I will beat you back here either way."

He grinned at her.

"You're on."

"And the prize?" she asked. "You have still got the pebble from last time."

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the small white stone, the token of victory that was often passed between them in their little games. But looking at it now, winking up at him from the palm of his hand, it wasn't enough.

An idea came to him, and he pushed down the warning voice that told him to let it lie, to remember Will, to keep the delicate status quo. But his odd mood was still swilling about in his mind, and if not for that, he probably wouldn't have said what followed.

"No – not today," he told her. "If I get back first…"

His breath momentarily hitched in his throat.

"I get to kiss you."

To her credit, she looked neither surprised nor appalled. She simply raised an eyebrow. He tried to maintain his shaky smile.

"And what if I get back first?" she asked.

"Then…you get to kiss _me_."

"And what if Much gets back before either of us?"

"Then he gets to watch us kiss each other!"

She didn't accept or decline the offer, but there was a tiny lift at the corners of her mouth, and his heart suddenly began ricocheting around his ribcage.

She plucked the stone from his sweaty palm, and turned for Edwinstowe, disappearing into the trees as swiftly as a bird in flight. For a moment he stared after her stupidly, then realising the race was on, grabbed his sack, tripped over a root, cursed, picked himself up and broke into a run for Whitborough as though the devil himself was after him.

*****

The residents of Whitborough were not impressed with that morning's deliveries. The food parcels were muddled up, they were denied any news from Nottingham, and Mr Pippins got hit in the face by a flying pouch of coins as the delivery boy sped by.

Allan threw apologies over his shoulder, but wasn't too worried. Let them think that guards were after him or something. He had to get back – not just before _her_ but before any of the others, who may have had a considerable head-start on him, and whose presence would ruin everything.

"Oy Allan!"

He skidded to a halt, feeling terror course through him. They fey mood was on him stronger than ever and it made him reach for his sword, certain that he was being found out, though as to what crime, he didn't know. For a moment he was more afraid of the sight of a glowering, betrayed Will than a furious Robin brandishing evidence of his dealings with Gisbourne. But it was John.

"I came down to fetch you. The lads and I are heading into Nottingham for a pint. Robin says we deserve a break."

Still feeling like a startled rabbit, he shook his head.

"I…can't…"

"Come on, Will and Robin are already there."

"What about Djaq?"

"You know her, she doesn't drink ale. _Remember?_"

"Yeah, I can't go though."

"_You're_ turning down a drink at the tavern? What's wrong with you?"

"Just…can't."

He was off.

*****

The forest surrounding the campsite was quiet, and the trees themselves seemed to be hushed as he passed through, hardly breathing, not having the faintest idea of what to expect. Surely they weren't about to go through with this, not after so long maintaining this balancing act of careful touches and open silences and watchful glances that never lasted too long.

The trees parted, and she was sitting there, carefully whetting her sword with a large stone. That was hardly a reassuring sight, but when she noticed him approaching she smiled.

"I told you I would win," she said rather smartly.

"Yeah well…Edwinstowe is closer."

He shuffled his feet, suddenly feeling thirteen again. Her fingers were tapping nervously over the stone, her eyes dancing across the ground in front of him.

"So…" She cleared her throat.

He eased down onto the ground opposite her, awkwardness crawling over him. What had he been _thinking_?

"You don't have to. Just forget it."

She looked up, a little startled.

"It was not that. It is just…"

His heartbeat picked up again.

"Yeah?"

"I just…I am used to being good at things. And I probably will not be good at this."

He swallowed. "I won't mind," he told her, and tried not to wince at the fact his voice had risen a few octaves.

"But I imagine that you are used to this sort of thing."

Would this be a good time to lie? He had no idea. "Uh…"

Her face gave away nothing. He simply couldn't fathom what she was thinking, not even when she set aside her sword and slid off the rock she was sitting on. She kept her eyes on him as she neared, as though approaching some wild animal whose reaction she couldn't gauge, and crouched down next to him gingerly. Her face was level with his, her eyes scanned his face, and as he watched her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She tilted her head slightly, lining herself up on the right angle, and he could see the pulse in her throat beating fast.

_Oh my God, she's actually going to kiss me._

But not just yet it would seem – she was peering into his face as though searching for something, her brown eyes piercing as always, but this time it was different. He got the irrational sense that she was silently asking him something, and more than anything he wanted to give her the answer she sought. But words were not forthcoming, and a spark of impatience leapt up in him. Seconds were trickling by, and she was just _looking_ at him, wanting something, waiting. He had to clamp his hands down into the grass either side of him to stop himself from reaching for her.

Then her eyes dropped to his mouth. He held his breath, knowing that at this stage he should close his eyes, but completely unwilling to stop watching her. She had one hand on his knee to brace herself, and he felt her grip tighten as she leaned in closer. The hammering of his heart was no doubt audible, the scent of her hair filled his mind, for the briefest of moments he felt her breath on his lips…and a voice called out:

"Hey! Anyone back yet?"

She drew back in a single, fluid motion and was back on her rock by the time Much marched into camp exactly two seconds later, carefully scraping the whetstone along her sword as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Allan blinked in shock. Had he just imagined it all?

Afternoon passed into evening, the other outlaws trudged home. Night came and then morning. He couldn't find it in himself to bring the moment up again, though he wasn't sure what stopped him. It was not until he was sitting in a small chamber, dressed from head to toe in black, that he realised what she had been trying to do. She'd been looking for something in him, and he could have found it in her as well, if only he'd slowed down long enough to look.

*****

_Yes, Amina bint Quais was a real person. When I read about her, I just knew I had to get her into a Djaq-fic somehow!_

Next up: Marian


	5. Marian

**Eye of the Beholder: Marian**

It had been five days. She was getting used to sleeping on the hard ground and its assorted stones, roots and twigs, and getting used to the rather awful concoctions that passed for meals around here. Some things though, she wasn't sure she'd ever get used to. Often she'd be doing something utterly ordinary – whetting her sword, or practicing with her knives – and it would hit her all over again that she would never see her father again. Not ever. The nights were difficult, especially when it was cold, but she was beginning to adjust to the continued and _very_ close presence of four other men. That had been the biggest change of all.

Much seemed vaguely resentful of her presence, and John was deliberately giving her plenty of space. Will on the other hand was naturally stoic and – as she realised after only a few hours at camp – so besotted with Djaq that he hardly registered her presence among them. Marian could have cart-wheeled about the camp in her slip and he probably would have still been more fascinated by the sight of Djaq cleaning her boots.

And as for Djaq herself – Marian didn't really know what to think. She was startled to find that she was rather intimidated by the woman, who lived so easily among these men, treated as their friend and equal, and any attempt to start a conversation with her was a struggle that Marian couldn't seem to overcome. Yet Marian had been touched by the gestures of welcome that Djaq had made, and unspeakably grateful when she'd had silently organised her sleeping arrangements, rolling out Marian's bedroll next to her own at a safe enough distance from the boys.

But she was still uncertain how to act around her. She had planned to take Djaq's lead in her dealings with the outlaws, assuming that someone she'd admired from afar would take no nonsense from Robin, yet had been vaguely disappointed to find that Djaq was possibly Robin's most obedient ally. She knew that Djaq had once served in the Saracen army, and that set a bad precedent for Marian. She didn't _want_ to take orders from Robin, but it seemed she would get no sympathy from the only other woman in the group.

And then there was Robin himself. How could someone she loved so dearly be so utterly insufferable? And naturally, he could not help but try and bait her sometimes. Like this morning.

"The stream is that way," he'd said waving a hand in its direction. "And last night's dishes are still dirty."

She bristled. "Don't tell me to do the dishes just because it's woman's work."

"Actually, I'm telling you because it's your turn. We work in pairs."

She'd turned to see Djaq waiting with a basket of dirty dishes on her hip and a dishrag draped over her arm.

Now she knelt by the stream, washing away crumbs from a plate while Djaq wiped them dry with a rag, feeling foolish and hoping she hadn't offended her. Truth be told, she was a little shy around the Saracen, not least because of what she'd done for her in the past. What did you say to the woman who once toiled through the night to save your life?

She handed over the last of the plates and wiped her hands down on her skirts, shooting a discreet glance at Djaq's cropped head of hair. It looked more feminine now: as soft and inky as a blackbird's feathers, but Marian wondered how she had felt when her hair had first been shorn, and whether she'd wept about it afterwards. Without thinking, she reached up and fingered her own glossy curls, fully grown back since that day in the cold stone courtyard.

Djaq was laying the utensils back in the basket when she abruptly turned to Marian and asked: "How are you finding life in the forest?" Marian gave an uncertain little smile.

"It's not quite how I imagined it."

"How did you imagine it?"

Marian had the irrational sense that the question was born out of more than just simple curiosity; that Djaq would be searching for something in her answer, and so she paused before speaking, choosing her words carefully.

"Oh, it's silly really. For so long Nottingham Castle was a prison – all gloomy corridors and dark chambers. But I could see the forest from my bedroom window…it felt like it was beckoning to me. It looked like freedom. And it is I suppose. But…there are restrictions here as well, ones I never considered before. One does not have food in the pantry, or walls around you to keep out the cold."

She peered into Djaq's face, hoping it didn't sound like she was complaining, but the Saracen just looked thoughtful.

"Yes…such things certainly make life easier…especially for those not used to them."

Marian wondered if she was talking about herself.

"Do _you_ sometimes tire of the forest?"

"Me? No! This place is my refuge. I have had my full of walls and bars and closed doors."

She shuddered as though to cast off the very thought of such things.

Marian then had an inkling of who it was that she was referring to, and wondered if Djaq was trying to press the matter further.

"In some ways it is better here," she said. "Here I do not feel so two-faced. Back in the castle, everything I did was deceitful. I didn't feel like a very honest person at times."

Djaq gave a wry smile. "If you can show me a spy who does a successful job _without_ being deceitful, then I shall show you a camel with three humps."

Marian was quiet for a moment. It had suddenly occurred to her that in all her dealings with the traitor, he had never once made mention of Djaq. And come to think of it, that was rather odd. They'd often spoken of Robin, there was no helping that really, and other mentions of Much, Will and John had often found their way into their brisk conversations. But not a single syllable had ever been uttered on the subject of the Saracen woman now sitting beside her, not even her name. It had been as though she didn't exist. It seemed an odd omission for him to make, especially for one who seemed so fond of women.

Now Marian watched Djaq, deliberately avoiding the utterance of _his_ name by performing a task that seemed to need her utmost concentration: carefully arranging the plates in the basket. She wondered, but when she opened her mouth to try again, Djaq cut in swiftly:

"Do you miss anyone at the castle?" Djaq asked, and once again Marian had the irrational sense that the question was filled with shifting meaning and hidden resonance, and that her answer might not necessary mean what she wanted it to.

"No," she said after some hesitation. "With my father gone, there was nothing to stay for. Except…"

Djaq waited patiently.

"Sometimes I feel that I am more useful there."

"Why is that?"

"I can get information…I can work from the inside. And well…then there is Guy."

"What about him?"

She sighed, trying to sort through her frustrated feelings.

"Guy is the sword that the sheriff wields," she said finally. "But I can stop him sometimes – influence him. Make sure that the damage is not so great as it otherwise would be if I was not there. What is it?"

Djaq was looking at her with a troubled expression on her face.

"There is a story in my land," she said unexpectedly. "Of a young woman whose job it was to fetch water for her village each morning. One day she arrived at the well, only to find that there was a lion – a rangy, starving beast – caught on a stone platform half-way down the well. The beast was too high up to drink the water, but too far down to leap out of the well.

"The girl was frightened, especially since the lion would not let her fetch water, for every time she lowered the bucket, the lion would paw at it and upset the water inside. She had no weapons with which to kill the beast, and even if she did, its carcass would only pollute the water below.

"But she took pity on the beast, and threw her own food to it, something that distracted it long enough for her to pull water out of the well and take it to her village. And so it went on each day."

Djaq stopped and went back to the dishes.

Marian blinked in confused. "How does the story end?"

Djaq shrugged. "The girl throws food. The lion allows her to fetch water. Such a story does not end."

Marian shook her head, unsure what Djaq was trying to tell her. Lady Fitzwater had died when she was quite young, but now she had the oddest sensation that she was a child seated before an admonishing mother.

"Do you mean…Guy is the lion in the well?"

Djaq just gazed at her serenely.

"But the lion could not help being a lion. And he could not help the fact that he was stuck in a well."

"No. But we cannot fight our own natures. Or the circumstances that we are born to."

"Everything is a choice. Everything we do."

For a moment a spark of dissention flew between the two women. They looked at each other, brown eyes on blue, both silenced by disagreement, both too polite to argue their points further. Marian flushed when she realised what a stupid thing that was to say to a woman who had been bought to this country in chains.

Then Djaq's eyes cleared. "It matters not. You are here with us in the forest, and far away from lions."

"Marian!"

They turned to see Robin standing on the slope of the bank. "There's movement on the eastern road! I'm going to go check it out – want to come?"

She got to her feet as Robin darted away to fetch their bows, and the tension between the two women fell away.

"I…would like to continue this conversation later," Marian said, feeling foolish again, but sincere. Djaq gave her a surprisingly shy smile in return, and then offered her hand. Marian took it and shook it, feeling a smile blossom across her face.

"Come on!" she heard Robin call impatiently.

"Coming!" she cried back, but by the time she reached the crest of the bank, organised her bow and cloak, and hurried off with Robin to where a dying peg-legged messenger carried a message from the king, Djaq's warning had been entirely forgotten.

* * *

_Incidentally, the story that Djaq tells Marian in this chapter is based on a story told from one character to another in a book called "The Tiger in the Well" by Philip Pullman. Although I've tweaked the story slightly in order to better fit Guy/Marian, it too was used as a metaphor for external circumstances by Pullman._

_The book is set in Victorian England, and the story has an Asian context. Whether it is a "real" story, or a product of Pullman's imagination, I don't know. However, it's a good book (as are all Pullman's novels)._


	6. Will

_This one is a little different, as it flits between Djaq's POV and Will's, but considering it's the final story in this series, I thought it was only fair to get a little bit of Djaq in there as well._

_I'm not good at love scenes, but I know there were some disappointed fans concerning the fact Harry Lloyd never got his shirt off. So, here you go. Sorry that I had to cut it a bit short, but I couldn't have them getting *too* close at this stage, and my evil-side couldn't help but ruin it for poor Will (don't worry though, I'm sure he'll get a more appropriately-timed opportunity with her in the Holy Land!)_

_

* * *

_

**Eye of the Beholder: Will and Djaq**

The night was too quiet, which was why she couldn't sleep. Usually the forest was full of nocturnal animal rustlings, the deep gush of the wind through the treetops, and the rhythmic sounds of Little John's snores. Tonight there was none of that, just a deep, eerie silence, like the whole of Sherwood was waiting for something to happen.

That was why Djaq couldn't sleep; kept awake, strangely enough, by the immense silence that surrounded her. The events of the day swam through her head like eddies of wind shifting the leaf-fall: going out to fetch honey with Will, getting sidetracked by the sight of Guy terrorising a village, having to watch as Allan stood by and passively watched his new lord and master prepare to sever a woman's finger. And then, a name from the past, three simple syllables: Lar-din-Neer, dancing over her like a hot desert breeze.

That afternoon, when Robin had launched the tiny bird into the air, she felt as though it were winging away with a piece of herself, flying back to heat and spices and sand. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine her home – the splintered, burnt-out remains, the sound of screams and wails, the unendurable march through the desert. She opened her eyes again. The silence was unsettling.

And so it was with relief that she realised a fellow outlaw was also restless. Almost absent-mindedly she watched as Will rolled over in his bunk, grunting softly with the effort. It was not until he heaved himself slowly out of bed, one arm held across his abdomen that she realised something was wrong. By the light of the moon, she could see his face was twisted in a grimace. She tensed as he rose to his feet, unsure what she should do, but on noticing the way he walked – a little hunched over, as though it caused him pain – she slipped from beneath the blankets, silently retrieved her box of medical supplies, and followed him.

*****

He was down by the stream, and she watched from the trees as he crouched over and dampened a cloth in the water, breathing sharply. He straightened and lifted the hem of his shirt, hissing in pain as he pressed the cloth to his side. She took that as her cue to approach, and he jumped – as startled as a deer – when he caught sight of her, his eyes wide and glinting in the moonlight. But he didn't speak, and she didn't feel there was any point in words either. Instead she walked up to him, deposited the box on the ground and delicately pried his hand and the cloth away. A dark bruise lay below his ribcage.

"What happened?"

He hadn't wanted to tell anyone. Having brushed so close to death on the gallows once more, he'd simply wanted to forget the whole ordeal. It wouldn't benefit anyone to tell him what had befallen him after he and Djaq had parted outside the village. But Djaq would have to know the whole story now – and perhaps if he kept talking, she would stay with him for a while longer.

"This afternoon, after we separated…I didn't exactly go the long way around. I was caught by the guards."

She gaped for a moment.

"But I'm alright!" he said hurriedly. "Well, obviously. Except I managed to pick this up along the way."

He gestured ruefully at his side.

"But – how did you escape?"

"I was taken into the castle grounds along with the fool. Luckily he managed to lift a key off…off a guard without him noticing. And we escaped."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugged, now feeling self-conscious.

"I was just…it didn't seem to matter."

"It matters to _me_," she said, still looking upset. "You should have said something if it was causing you pain."

He felt a little guilty that the sight of her looking so concerned had him feeling so giddy with pleasure, a feeling that only intensified when she lifted up the hem of his shirt.

"It wasn't too bad," he told her. "But when I woke up just now it was a bit hard to breath."

* * *

Gently she ran her hand down his side, ascertaining that all of his ribs were still intact, and then brushed her fingers over the bruise itself. It was angry-looking, the darkness changing the form and colour of it into a malicious reminder of what she'd almost lost. Today could have ended so differently, and she hadn't even known it until now. What if she hadn't been awake tonight? She would have never seen Will, never found out that he almost died today.

Her hand began to shake, and she murmured: "There's little I can do for bruises. But I have a salve that might ease some of the pain."

For some reason she couldn't look at his face – that was impossible, as though her neck had become an iron rod that physically prevented her. Her traitorous hands were fumbling as she found the pottle, yet her mind reassured her that it was only the shock of Will's story that was having his effect on her. It was however, having more troubling accounting for the odd warmth that was trickling in an upwards direction from her belly, unfurling across her shoulders and down her legs, blossoming in her head like one of the desert night-flowers that opened under the light of the moon.

The shirt he was wearing was too loose; its folds got in her way and slipped down into the salve. She gave a small hiss of impatience as she struggled to hold it up out of the way, and the obvious solution flitted between the two minds. A little hesitantly, Will raised his arms, wincing as the movement disturbed his injury, and Djaq slipped the shirt up and over his head.

She thought she was used to the sight of white English flesh, but Will's was paler still in the moonlight, particularly next to the darkness of his bruise. She swallowed the odd lump in her throat, dipped her fingers in the salve and began to dab it on the ugly wound, feeling the pounding of Will's heart through her fingertips. She risked a glance at his face, and bit back a smile. His eyes were closed, but the expression on his face was one she'd only ever seen when he had a project in his hands: intently focused yet peaceful at the same time…with just a trace of pure bliss.

* * *

He knew it was a selfish thought, but he was glad that he had her all to himself for a change. No orders from Robin, no demands for attention from Much, no watchful gazes from John. No Allan. Her undivided attention and the warmth of her fingers on his body: all for him.

He could almost imagine that the world was discreetly acquiescing to his desire, as though a fog was coming up from the river and settling over them, or the shadowy trees were linking their branches together in the attempt to hide them away from the rest of the world, making a place just for the two of them. He could stay here forever, the sun never rising, the world never changing; it was enough just to be here alone with her, feeling her so achingly close. He couldn't prevent a low whine of disappointment when her hand moved away, nor a smile when it returned.

Opening his eyes a fraction, he watched her, wondering for what must have been the thousandth time what she thought of him. Was he still a boy to her? Or were things changing now that Allan had gone, taking with him the self-confidence and inflated ego that had so often obscured Will's quieter efforts.

And now she was here, right there in front of him with her hands on him, a soft expression on her face. It was the face he'd seen when she thumbed through the black-powder ledger or when she'd handled Damascus steel. It was the look she wore when she was discovering something she'd never known before. It would be so easy…so easy to drop the shirt he had clenched in one hand, and tilt her face up to look at him…maybe that expression would remain when she looked at his face…maybe tonight she'd see what he'd been trying to tell her for so long…

His heart picked up again as he realised he was going to do it. Then it clenched in horror as he felt his body responding to the thought.

* * *

She couldn't help but give a quick yelp as Will bowed over suddenly, as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach.

"What is it? Are you hurt?"

"No," he groaned. "I'm fine…just…never mind."

"Are you sure, you look like-"

He shook his head, his face scrunched up, backing away from her.

"No, I'm fine," he said again, and abruptly turned his back, struggling up the slope back to camp. "Thanks for you help," he called softly over his shoulder, his voice apologetic and strained.

Djaq watched him go, stunned. What on earth had that been about? Hugging herself in her arms, she felt the chill of the night creep back into her. Just over a year she had been among these men, but today something had changed. Will wasn't the same person she'd known yesterday. She'd been with him at the village this morning, watched him save a woman from loosing her finger, watched as Guy of Gisbourne himself had actually obeyed Will's command to let her go.

She'd spent a lot of time and effort on her fellow outlaws, shamelessly – but subtly – prying into their assorted lives, trying to throw some light on this strange enigma of love. John's Alice, Much's Eve, Robin's Marian and Marian's troubling but lingering thoughts of Guy. Even her own little experiment with Allan; all had been part of her attempt to glean some insight into the emotion that the poets spoke of, that warriors fought for, that philosophers tried to unravel. She couldn't understand why it kept eluding her, even though she felt all the pieces must be in her hands by now.

And now this. Love – and Will Scarlett – were still a mystery.

* * *

_Poor Will! Yes, I do feel guilty...still, he IS a teenager. _

_And so ends this "ode to Djaq". I don't think I'll ever forgive the show for their shabby treatment of this character, either the way they consistently ignored her, or the way they disposed of her in such a nauseating way. This project was to try and make up for it, in fandom if in nothing else. _

_There's still a tiny pang of hope left in me that she and Will are going to pull a Carter and turn up for the finale (though hopefully without Carter's pointless death)...because if Marian was the heart of the show, Djaq was the heart of the outlaws, always with a kind word for Much and a sympathetic ear for Robin. She and John got along like a house on fire - he always seemed to have a discreet eye on her - and as for the Allan/Djaq/Will triangle...well, the fact that S3 is going to deprive me of that dynamic is reason enough not to watch it._

_It just won't be the same without her._


End file.
